THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ingram stood and doubled his fists. "Shut up!" he yelled.

  Snoring stopped. Men stirred and their eyes flicked open; he saw the dim reflections; their blinking. One cursed while voiding his bladder in a metal urinal.

  Ingram put his head in his hands and swayed slightly until the urinal clanked on the concrete floor. Blankets rustled. A man snored nearby. Others soon took up the cadence.

  Something nudged his leg. He turned seeing the shirtless patient sit up and hand over a dark, slim object. "Huh?"

  It was the one who said "knock it off." His head was covered with bandages. "Here." He raised the object toward Ingram. "You want this back?"

  Something roared in Ingram's ears. He swayed for a moment and put out an arm to keep his balance. Finally, he sat on a corner of Hampton's cot.

  The clarinet case waved at Ingram's chest. He grabbed it and looked back to Hampton's vacuous face and--Good God! Hampton's thigh was the size of a tree stump. "What the hell?" he muttered.

  "That's what I'd like to know, Mac. You said you were going for water," the bandaged face man said.

  "Who?" asked Ingram.

  "You, dim wit. I held on to your case. Now where's my damned water?"

  Ingram turned the clarinet case in his hands. "Someone was here?"

  "I thought it was you."

  "No. How long ago?"

  "About eighty shells ago."

  "What?"

  "Only way I tell time is to count shells."

  Fifteen to twenty minutes, figured Ingram. "What's at the other end of the tunnel?"

  "Don't know, Mac. The last thing I saw was the inside of our bunker before we took a direct hit.

  "Which one?"

  "Searchlight command bunker on Topside. I'm the only one that survived. I don't know why. My face is so sliced up I'm one gigantic scab. I don't even know if I'll see again. But, twenty-two other guys were luckier than me. They got to go home."

  Maybe it was the medical team. "A woman? A nurse?"

  "Nah. Helen and Doc Taft are still at the front of the lateral. This was a guy. He gave your buddy morphine after Filby left."

  "Yardly?"

  "Yeah, the smooth-talking corpsman. I traded aspirin for tomato juice."

  Ingram stood and looked at Hampton. "I didn't realize he was that ill," he muttered.

  "What?"

  Ingram spoke up. "You said morphine? He wasn't in pain."

  "Wasn't in pain? What's wrong with him?" the sightless man demanded.

  Ingram didn't know what to say. "Shhh. You'll wake everybody."

  The man lay back. "Look who's talking."

  Ingram stood then looked at the man's chart. He was a first lieutenant; an Army Air Corps pilot from De Moines, Iowa, named Leon Beardsley. They had brought him in yesterday suffering flash burns, multiple facial lacerations, and severe cornea abrasions. He looked around and saw a metal pitcher in the corner. He walked over, found a tall dented cup, and filled it and brought it back. "Leon." He nudged Beardsley's arm.

  The pilot arranged the cup's lip at the hole over his mouth and drank; some dribbled to mix with sweat on his chest. He lay back and said. "You read my chart."

  Ingram couldn't deny that. "Um."

  "Did the chart say when I'll be able to see again?"

  "It says you're allergic to sulpha."

  "Crap makes my face swell like a basketball. Lookit my eyes."

  Ingram forced himself to look in the eye openings. All he could see was gooey flesh. "Glued shut?"

  "Tighter than Fort Knox."

  "Something you don't need right now."

  "They won't tell me when I'll see again."

  "What does it matter?"

  Beardsley thought about that. "Okay."

  "What do you fly, Leon?"

  "B-17s. When there are some to fly. We lost all ours at Clark Field."

  "And they stuck you with the ground pounders."

  "At least I wasn't on Bataan." He handed back the cup and wiggled it.

  With a nod, Ingram refilled the cup and walked back. "Here, Leon." He put it in the man's hand and leaned close, whispering, "Hampton didn't make it."

  "I wondered. He just breathed less and less but I thought you knew what you were doing."

  "Not me." Ingram rose.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "His skipper. We're off a minesweep. The Pelican." Ingram stooped and shoved the tomato juice case under Beardsley's cot. "The juice is yours. You have a weapon?"

  Beardsley reached under his back and whipped out a .32 nickel-plated automatic. "My Uncle ran booze in Chicago."

  "Very good." Ingram found an opener and popped a can. "Here, Leon. Drink up. Better have another can before someone steals..." He almost completed the sentence with "you blind." "Maybe another can before someone takes it all. Here's the opener."

  "Thanks, Mac."

  He waited until Beardsley finished sucking at the can. "Anything you can tell me about the guy with the morphine?"

  "No." Beardsley held the can all the way up and sucked. Blood-red juice dribbled around the mouth opening. "Ahhhh."

  "Okay, Leon. Good luck." Ingram patted the pilot's shoulder and took a last look at Hampton. As an afterthought, he reached in the dead man's duffle and retrieved Kowalski’s flask of booze.

  "Hey!"

  "Yeah?"

  Leon sat up. In a flash, he pulled his shiny .32, dropped the clip, cocked it and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked loudly.

  "That's good, Leon. Thanks for taking out the clip."

  "I remember something. The guy with the morphine smelled like he was groomed for the evening. You know? My girl got some for me for my birthday last year."

  "What?"

  "Bay Rum."

  "Sure."

  * * * * *

  Helen Durand nodded when Ingram walked up. She held the ether bottle and gauze over a Filipino corporal as Doctor Taft finished amputating his left hand.

  "Can I talk to you?"

  She looked at the doctor who kept working. With a slight nod, she finally said, "What's it like out there?"

  "Not as bad as in here.

  "People get killed for just going outside for a breath of fresh air." Sweat beaded on her forehead and both hands were busy.

  Ingram picked up a towel. "Okay?"

  "Please."

  He dabbed at her forehead and cheeks. "I found my man back there."

  "Good."

  "He's dead."

  "Sorry." Her eyes blinked and she bit at her upper lip. "Funny..."

  "What's funny."

  "He didn't seem that bad."

  Ingram pushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and dabbed again. "That's what I thought." He turned his head for a moment. The ether made him woozy. "What made his leg swell up?"

  "What?" She looked at him.

  "Yeah. His injured thigh. Like a balloon."

  "Doctor?" she said.

  "Mosquito, please," said Taft.

  She handed him one. "That man with the broken femur? We saw him about an hour ago."

  Doctor Taft bent close to the Filipino's hand to clamp bleeders. "Haven't the foggiest."

  "He and his friend had the tomato juice."

  Doctor Taft smiled. "The cumshaw artists?"

  "The lieutenant here says he's dead," said Helen.

  Ether fumes made Ingram see double. He turned his head again and took a deep breath. How do they stand it? he thought.

  "Must have tried to move around. Got up to take a leak, maybe. Was he in a Thomas Splint?" asked Doctor Taft.

  "Yes," said Helen.

  "Was he strapped in?"

  Helen Durand looked at Ingram. "Was he strapped?"

  Something was wrong. "I don't understand. He wasn't strapped. At least I don't remember. What does that--"

  Doctor Taft said, "We keep 'em strapped so they can't move. Your man was scheduled for work tomorrow morning because I agreed with your corpsman. He had a broken femur. But if he moved around much then the j
agged edges of the break probably lacerated the femoral artery."

  They stared at him.

  Ingram said, "Yes?"

  "Bleeds to death. The entire blood supply is pumped into the thigh; makes it blow up like a balloon," said Doctor Taft.

  "Gone," said Helen. They looked down. The ether bottle was empty.

  Doctor Taft bent to his work. "Call over to Lateral Eight."

  "They're out," she said.

  "Shit." Taft sewed. The Filipino moaned slightly.

  He dabbed at her brow. "Why give him morphine?"

  She looked at him then took the towel and wiped her face. "I asked if he had pain. He said 'no.' We didn't order morphine."

  Ingram's voice rose. "Well, then. Who did?"

  Doctor Taft said, "Gonna have to leave now, son."

  Ingram yelled, "Damnit. Somebody pumped morphine into Hampton."

  The Filipino's moaning became louder. Helen stroked the man's forehead and said, "I remember a helpful man a few minutes ago that kept a certain army captain from shooting Dr. Taft."

  "I..." Ingram sat back. "What should I do with Hampton?"

  Helen said, "We'll take care of it. Go back to your post. Where are you?"

  "Pelican. A minesweeper."

  "Okay."

  He put his hand on her shoulder. "I gave the tomato juice to the pilot."

  "That was nice," she said.

  "What's next?" asked Doctor Taft.

  Helen nodded toward a Marine private leaning against the wall. "Broken elbow, I think."

  The doctor said as Ingram rose to shuffle out, "Thank God. Sounds like something I can handle for a change."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  24 April, 1942

  Hospital Tunnel

  Corregidor Island, Manila Bay, Philippines

  They waited until midnight for a let-up in the bombardment. There was none, so Ingram, Yardly, and Junior Forester put their heads down and ran to South Dock sprinting as if they were in a 440-yard race. Someone screamed. Ingram realized it was his own voice as his legs pumped furiously. Forester was the fastest and raced ahead leaving Yardly, also screaming, alongside Ingram their cacophony like two wailing imbeciles.

  Offshore, Forester's older brother saw Ingram's frantic flashing. He bore in just as two enormous shells erupted alongside the wharf raising twin hissing water columns. Everyone was drenched as the shore party scrambled aboard, hauling in their tomato juice. Whittaker anxiously revved the engine as the sandy mist dissipated. Forester clutched his tiller, pointed at the crates, and screeched, "What the hell's that?"

  "Skipper got lucky in a crap game. Shove off!" yelled Yardly jumping in with the last case.

  Three minutes later they sliced easily into Manila Bay with Forester setting a course for the Pelican's anchorage. Words weren't necessary. They all looked at one another breathing collective sighs of relief over the hell they'd just escaped. Yardly found a rag in the bilge, wiped mist off his face, and nonchalantly handed it to his skipper. Ingram wiped and passed it on to Junior Forester as the little Buda four-banger diesel purred; the bow wave sizzled alongside while they collected themselves and looked back at the Rock watching the bombardment.

  "Funny," said Yardly.

  The pharmacist's mate's voice was almost normal and it made Ingram realize the last time he'd heard Yardly the man had screamed in terror. For that matter, he had, too.

  "Yeah Bones?" His throat was raw.

  "Lookit that. They're shootin' at just the Rock. Nothing else."

  They all looked around seeing the barrage crash into Corregidor. Strangely, the other three fortified islands were not under bombardment for the moment.

  "Why is that?" asked Forester.

  It dawned on Ingram that he'd have to say something. Aside from MacRoberts and an executive officer who had been with them for a short while, Hampton was their only casualty since war broke. He and his crew had done well together. The man with the scythe and dark, musty robe had finally boarded the Pelican in earnest. A debate raged in his head on how to break the news. "Yes," Ingram said, "they're leaving the other forts alone tonight."

  "Must mean something." Whittaker said.

  Ingram tapped Yardly's knee. "Listen, Bones, I--"

  "I'll bet the Japs are going to land, soon. Maybe tomorrow morning." Yardly said.

  "Let 'em try it," said the gnarly faced Whittaker. "The gunners on the Rock'll chop 'em to pieces."

  Yardly cocked both thumbs and with arrow-straight forefingers, aimed at Bataan and shouted, "Make the little saps pay. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. That's for MacRoberts."

  "Yeah, pay for Hambone, too." Whittaker said. "How's he gettin' along, anyway?"

  Yardly grinned. "You shoulda seen us. We had this tomato juice--"

  "He's dead," said Ingram.

  "Nah. Skipper. We traded for--"

  "Listen to me! He's dead." Damnit! Why did I lose my temper?

  While catching his breath he watched their eyes and the silent, inaudible, "how" that crossed their lips. "'Dead', I said." He threw Kowalski’s flask in Yardly's lap. The corpsman stared at it then back at Ingram as the diesel rumbled on. Finally, he told them.

  "Bastards!" roared Forester from his tiller. "I say let's go and ice that doctor."

  Whittaker pulled a bayonet and plunged it into a kapok life jacket. "Yeah. What was his name, Bones?"

  Yardly's eyes were wide; the rage in his voice barely checked. "Skipper, Hambone didn't need morphine. He wasn't in pain. Why do that? Who the hell did it, anyway?"

  Ingram shook his head and spread his palms.

  "Maybe some asshole pay clerk doing double duty?" said Whittaker.

  Ingram said, "I don't know what they had in mind. Nobody seemed to know--"

  Something whooshed right above their heads. Instinctively, they ducked and threw their hands over their heads. Whatever it was felt big, metallic, and warm. But it didn't smash the water like the howitzer shell Ingram expected. Instead, engines revved up and roared.

  "PBY!" yelled Forester from his tiller.

  "Bullshit," said his younger brother. "That was a Zero. The sonofabitch is probably out lookin' for--"

  "Quiet!" barked Ingram. He stood watching where the airplane had gone...when...another flew right over. He looked up in time to see the dark shape whip by, no more than twenty feet overhead. Hull-shaped fuselage, single tail, high wing, twin engines; blue flaming plumes shot from the exhaust stacks as the pilot revved engines like the other amphib.

  It dawned on him. They were in the seaplane lane used in peacetime just a few months ago. And now it seemed strange it was to be used again; that seaplanes, American seaplanes, were returning. These past few months seemed like forever and Ingram now wondered if there had ever been a time without war.

  He shouted. "It's two PBYs, Forester. We have to clear the lane. Head toward the Rock so these guys can land."

  Forester leaned into his tiller, making the boat slug around and aim once again toward Corregidor. He'd just put their nose on Geary Point when a PBY whooshed over again. Something popped, lighting the area in a hoary brightness making them shade their eyes. In the flare's brightness, they saw they were almost directly upwind of the other PBY's final approach. In fact, they were right in the way, Ingram realized. "Step on it, Whittaker. I don't think he sees us." Ingram yelled.

  Whittaker leaned into the engine compartment and fiddled with the throttle linkage, making the engine run a little faster. "He probably sees us, Skipper. Just doesn't give a shit."

  Ingram sliced a hand through the air. "Head more to the left, Forester. Take a fix on--good, that's it."

  The PBY flared, squatted, and splashed hard. Water spewed as she bounced high in the air.

  "Ouch," said Yardly, as the amphibian settled once again to Manila Bay. "Pensacola guys call that kind of landing a pile driver."

  Ten or so fifty-five-gallon drums bobbed in the flare's light loom. "Noooo," they yelled.

  The PBY settled among them, with her hull hitting
two drums, making her wobble a bit. Three seconds later, her right pontoon ripped off when it snagged another drum. Even then, the Consolidated PBY-5 Catalina flying boat probably would have survived, except she still yawed and skipped from the first blow. Without the pontoon her right wingtip dipped and caught the water making the amphibian cartwheel over the water, spewing mist and wreckage.

  "Get over there!" yelled Ingram.

  Forester needed no urging and jammed his tiller hard right to head directly for the stricken craft.

  "Life jackets on," Ingram ordered.

  His crew struggled into bulky kapok vests as they closed the crash site. Forester yanked one bell and Whittaker throttled to an idle where they drifted through unrecognizable pieces of wreckage.

  Yardly sniffed, "What's that?"

  "Avgas: one hundred octane. Don't light a cigarette." said Ingram.

  "Hold it," called Junior Forester, from the bow. Whittaker reversed and they drifted next to a face down body. Junior Forester reached and lifted the head.

  "Brian?" said Forester's brother from the helm.

  "He's dead all right," said Junior Forester. "A lieutenant. Must have been the pilot."

  They dragged the body in as the other PBY whooshed overhead to land with a large splash about two hundred yards upwind.

  Ingram found a battle lantern and shined it around, seeing another body. They recovered that one, finding it was an enlisted man. "It's too dark for anyone else. We better check in with the other PBY in case--"

  Something gurgled off to their right. "Hold it," Ingram said. He shined the light on a man whose head barely rose above water. The man waved a hand weakly then let it plop.

  Forester maneuvered the boat alongside a lieutenant commander with a deep gash in the side of his head. Ingram reached over to secure a hold under his armpits. "Anything broken?"

  "Don't think so," was a weak reply.

  "Okay. Here we go."

  They eased him in the boat and lay him in the bilge beside the two corpses. All three looked like bloated fish.

  "Head for the other PBY." said Ingram.

  "Yessir," Forester rang bells for full speed.

  Yardly opened the lieutenant commander's shirt while Ingram asked, "How do you feel?"

  "Not sure." The man grimaced. "What happened?"

  "You hit some oil drums." said Forester.